Dust
by Autre
Summary: Character study of Student!Sherlock, could be read as autistic!Sherlock


For as long as Sherlock could remember he had been an automaton. Every movement a farce, robotic, rehearsed to perfection as if directed by some pathological choreographer with a taste for the macabre. As far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, he was not a man.

Since university he had been a machine, the pathway of neural development that he had put himself on had made him such. Lectures, in colour coded note pads, the violin practice afterwards tearing the soft ivory flesh of hands known only to academia. Fencing afterwards, it was good for logical thought with the same processes activated; study of logic was Thursdays, before archery. Sherlock was self-made, he had created his own reason and with it banished any trace of the hormonal weakness that the others called _emotion._

Oxytocin, dopamine, adrenocorticotropic, epinephrine … He understood the neurobiology of emotions. The neurotransmitters that pooled across synapse after synapse, these created emotive response. He understood every single neurobiological action there was for this. However, he'd figured out very early on that he did not understand how one does actually feel. He just understood the why. To him the scattered meandering of the human psyche across neural pathway were just that. There was no mind, no dualism. Sherlock Holmes was a system, a robot, clockwork and as long as everything carried on ticking along smoothly with just the right amount of stimulation then everything was fine.

When it began Sherlock had no-one to turn to; it had just gone three am, and the British birds and the start of British spring time had begun their dawn chorus. Photons, light blue with the morning cadence rang through Sherlock's university dorm. He had been up all night, reading through a book on bees that he'd found in the library. His curled fringe hid his eyes, and he sat pouring over diagrams of honey-comb structure and close ups of the wings that were so oft cited to defy physics. _Idiots _the student thought, half smiling in the morning light. Soon, so soon he had reached the end of the book and had to find something else to do. He amused himself with the violin for some time, occasionally checking on the mouse he was dissecting and when nine o'clock hit he walked to his lecture.

This lecture was on abnormal psychology, nothing he didn't know already but he had his navy scored note pad just in case. The silver, curious morning air bit at his pale, skinny, awkward with height form as he strode across the quad. Coat left at home, and just the shirt, suit jacket and the blue scarf, he scanned the various students who decoratively festooned themselves on the benches. He was bored, and every single one of them he had analysed ad nauseum. His clockwork mind had much to tick over once, but now reality was devoid of any proper stimuli, it was beginning to grate.

Without care he walked into the theatre, taking his usual seat in the third row. He took out his silver fountain pen, and quarter folded his scarf. He was the first in the hall, as per. But, something was different … The texture of the seat, the wood all seemed hyper-real, as if he was feeling them fifty times over in one go. The very air that his body was currently metabolising seemed to be composed of thicker and thicker dust particles. He shook his head, visibly paled at these sensations. He'd had hyper-sensitive reactions before, but never like this. Feeling the beginning of a headache he blinked, aware of a slight darkening before and after he did so. He felt slightly nauseous, and quickly attributed it to the fact that he hadn't slept in a while.

However, as the hall filled this only got worse, with each conversation screaming across his heightened senses. The noise in the hall got louder with the more than entered and each vocal tone was slightly different. Sherlock blinked, rapidly, touching his scarf to try and ground himself. _Calm, calm down. You are aware of the neurobiology here. Your brain craves stimulation and in the absence of this what's happening is environmental stimuli is being converted into factual stimuli. It's called hyper-focus and panicking will merely exacerbate it. _This, however, did not help.

As the class continued to fill Sherlock was bombarded by sights, sounds and textures. He was shaking and wishing for the lecture to start. The lecture when started was not any better.

Sherlock got progressively more bored throughout it, with recycled knowledge being thrown at him with an alarming speed. His mind's eye began to cloud, if emotions were the proverbial grit on the lens then boredom was the black-out paint. More and more was he battered by these sensations, to a higher degree than before. By the end of the two hours, he was numb, shaking and cold from lack of … Something. He couldn't define what, he felt concussed and confused. A difference to his usual automaton self, his brass heart and silver brain seemed somewhat weakened and his system in decline.

He stumbles out of the theatre, holding his books in a crooked, stiff stance, his scarf cascading loosely over one arm. His clockwork mind screaming the ticks at him, each one a dagger to further describe his boredom and his vision seeming darkened, the stride of earlier is no longer evident as he walks stiffly to his accommodation. The white hot tendrils of boredom following, clinging to his wrists and legs and trying to drag him down into that pit he would come to be incredibly well acquainted with. He could feel it, clogging up his gears with its clinging, water logged fabric. He could feel it writhing inside of him, behind his eyes, waiting, waiting for its moment. He sat, shattered in his chair, hand hanging loosely by his side and books in a pile on the floor.

That was when he started watching the dust notes, dancing in the streaks of light that so often lit his room. He got lost in their motion, like ballet dancers they seemed to weave in tune with his movements. One swipe of his pale fingers and they would scatter like so many raindrops held accountable to the wind. They made him stop, the ticking in his head stopped and facts that had long lost anything but a glimmer of their iridescence got lost in the fog, the smoke created by his un-ending boredom. Nothing seemed useful, or concrete. Sherlock was caught by the notes above his head, illogically at times supposing that they were the carcasses of his violin notes. Golden dust, _dust is eloquent._ Its motion spoke to Sherlock, enticing him, his normal tasks seemed useless. The dust seemed to explain that all was ok, he should stop and let the tendrils take him. He offered his wrists and waited for the bliss of ignorance that had been so oft cited to him. It came, in a great crashing wave, the numbness of motionless, the invisibility of the un-worked mind. The silence of a machine unplugged. It crashed into him, time and time again, inching up his cerebral-spinal fluid and crouching on his cortex. It made all dark.

When all was dark even facts lost their glimmer. Once silver they now dulled to rust and rocks, hidden amongst the fog brought about by this intangible boredom. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, his mind was a blank and the fog that came with it brought darkness and solitude. Outside influence didn't matter; he no longer was possessed of the drive to understand.

The relief Icarus must have felt when drowning, knowing that he would never been punished for his mis-understanding is how Sherlock felt. He had flown so close, and for so long next to the brilliant boiling brass sum of knowledge, to fall felt safe. His flaws, his lack of understanding in one of the most basic premises of humanity didn't matter now. He didn't have to understand his feelings, or anyone else's. He wasn't culpable any longer. He didn't have to be a 'Genius'.

He would let his mind turn to dust and live amongst the notes. He was broken, flawed now. He could never achieve what he needed.

Sherlock Holmes, no matter what he tells you from that day forth was no longer a true automaton. Instead of every move being choreographed by his macabre director he rehearsed it, over and over in his head. To make sure that he could avoid the tendrils, he began scripting his life. He was a convincing automaton, a convincing robot. But since the boredom set in, since he realised his flaws, his errors he found it nye on impossible to hold back his emotional processing. Caring is not an advantage and Sherlock made himself care about his work. That in itself is still not an advantage. His programming was broken, his emotional receptors were worryingly near the cold harsh air. He tried to repress them, fix his system … But it never works.

_Humanising. _


End file.
